


Amsterdam

by AcidKraken



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Coercion, Dom/sub Undertones, Drinking, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Ghoul Sex, Maybe just porn with character development, Misogyny, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Prostitution mention, Rough Sex, Seriously Desmond is an asshole, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation, merry christmas y'all, sorta?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 15:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17103140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcidKraken/pseuds/AcidKraken
Summary: After one too many drinks to celebrate a certain Pre-War holiday, Desmond gives the Lone Wanderer an attitude adjustment. The result is more than either of them bargained for.(General content warning, see tags)





	Amsterdam

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [FWU_2018_Smutmas_Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/FWU_2018_Smutmas_Collection) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>    
> Christmas lights
> 
> \-----
> 
> (ChocoChipBiscuit's _Good Is Not Nice_ first planted this shameful seed in my brain, and I had to get the idea out one way or another. 
> 
> As a PSA - This isn't non-con, but this fic by no means portrays healthy consent or acceptable D/s boundary setting. I wrestled with this, but in the interest of depicting Desmond in a certain light, I let the scene pan out the way it felt most natural.
> 
> Anyhow, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!)

The pre-war bourbon was never something he intended to share. Tonight of all nights, however, Desmond felt unusually hospitable. 

It was Christmas eve. Though he wasn’t all that susceptible to holiday cheer, it still made for decent pretense. One attracted more flies with honey, and pouring drinks to celebrate was a kindness that didn’t require him to be polite. 

The wastelander showed up on his doorstep a few weeks ago. She was a little dense, and more than a little petulant. But dense and petulant didn’t mean _useless,_ and Desmond wanted her to stick around to _be_ of use. If that meant plying her with alcohol, then so be it. His strategy seemed harmless enough in theory. In practice, however, he didn’t exactly have a grip on the situation. They’d worked their way to the bottom of the bottle quicker than he intended. He was a cheaper drunk than he remembered. And his _guest_ was even worse. 

“Fuck,” she breathed. “It's gorgeous.”

She was fogging up the second floor window, nose pressed against the glass. It wasn't the first time she'd been mystified by the dirty snow coming down outside. Whether this was typical behavior for a vault dweller - or a function of her missing a chunk of brain - he didn’t know. 

“Are you usually this fascinated by normal fucking weather?” Desmond asked. 

She pushed away from the window and scowled at him. 

_“No,_ asshole,” she snapped. “It's not the snow. It's the ferris wheel. It wasn't like that yesterday.”

Desmond didn't budge from the rotting chaise lounge he'd slumped into. He'd been in Point Lookout long enough to know - it was tradition for the inbred locals to string the damn thing up with lights when the weather got cold. 

“They do that every year,” he said flatly.

“Who does?”

“Some festive lunatic with a death wish. I don't know. They can't seem to help themselves.”

She looked out the window, then back to him, her eyebrows pinched.

_“Why?”_

Desmond uncorked the bottle of bourbon and filled his glass. His pours were getting heavy handed. He usually had better judgment, but drinking alone and drinking with irritating company were two very different things. 

“Bloody hell,” he said. He took a swig from his glass and bared his teeth. “Don't tell me I have to explain Christmas to you.”

She jabbed a finger at him. 

“I know what _Christmas_ is, okay? Give me some goddamn credit. I've just never seen... _that,_ before.”

She looked out the window again. Her scowl gave way to a dreamy stare, and Desmond scoffed.

“Nothing to write home about,” he muttered.

She turned and stalked over to him. Desmond sat up. It wasn’t that he felt threatened by her, not really. But his guest wasn’t exactly well-mannered, and the way she loomed over him now put his face well within reach of her knee. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d tried it. 

“How are you so damn jaded?” she demanded.

She bent down, hands on her hips, her face dangerously close to his. 

“Because I _have_ seen it before,” he said. He locked eyes with her, and made a point to lean forward. “A hundred times over.”

She stared him down. Desmond pushed up his glasses. He’d made certain, more than once, that she regretted invading his personal space. He hoped her memory was decent enough to grant her some common sense. And she did lean back, after a second or two. She didn’t step away from him, but he counted any minute sliver of civilized behavior as progress.

“You mean... _before_ the war,” she said, crossing her arms. “Don't you?”

She furrowed her brow, scrutinizing. Desmond curled his lip in return. She had an annoying habit of using him like a history book. He could blame the alcohol for stumbling right into it this time, but her relentless curiosity was ultimately his own damn fault. He’d laid out for her, in no uncertain terms, the gulf between his age and her lack of experience. He meant to put her in her place. Needless to say, it backfired.

“Yes,” he said tersely. _“Before_ the war. I've seen plenty of shit _before_ the war. We've established that. More than fucking once, actually.”

“Yeah, and?” she said. One hand ran through her butch hack-job of a haircut, the other planted on her hip. “What can you tell me about it? The lights, or... Or any of it. Come on. There's got to be _something_ worth remembering.”

Desmond sighed, heavily. She always hounded him like this. As if two centuries of living was all he could bloody well manage, and he’d drop dead in front of her before saying a fucking word. He tossed back his drink and poured another. Perhaps it was a bit reckless to keep going, but he was already drunk, and her brattiness necessitated that he stay that way.

“I'm not giving you a dissertation on Christmas decor,” he said. “Be more specific.”

She crossed her arms and huffed. 

“Fine. The best lights you've ever seen, then. The... The _prettiest,_ I guess.”

“Amsterdam,” he said. “At night.”

She blinked at him. It usually took him longer to dredge up the past, and she seemed taken aback by his sudden reply. That made two of them. Desmond frowned and took another deep swig of bourbon. Remembering wasn’t usually so involuntary. It had to be the alcohol. Nothing stripped away the weathering of time quite like it. 

“Amsterdam?” she asked, after a moment. She pursed her lips, then shook her head, as if to dismiss his answer altogether. “That’s... _weird._ Never heard of it.”

Desmond hunched forward, ripped off his glasses, and mashed his palms into his eye sockets.

“Christ,” he breathed. “Didn't they teach you geography in that Vault of yours?”

She flopped down beside him. The furniture let out a horrid creak. It was kind of death rattle that preceded a cave-in, but she didn't seem to notice, much less care.

“Sort of,” she muttered, at last. “I didn't exactly pay attention back then.”

She slouched a bit, then settled in, legs akimbo. She already took up more than her fair share of the chaise. Desmond bristled.

“It's in the Netherlands,” he said. 

She wrinkled her nose and shrugged. Desmond sat up and jabbed a finger into the frayed upholstery between them.

“In the _European Commonwealth._ Fucking hell. You know that much, don't you?”

She didn't say anything. She just leaned back, staring at the ceiling with a frown. Desmond set his glasses on a nearby table and rubbed his temples with both hands. He knew by now that he couldn't berate her into keeping quiet. She'd find another unwelcome line of questioning. It was only a matter of time. Still, the imminent threat of broken silence didn’t stop his mind from wandering. He kept a wealth of past experiences under lock and key, for good reason. Now that she’d bashed the lid off something repressed, there was little he could do but let the memories come.

 _Amsterdam._ Fuck, he hadn't thought about that place in decades. He only saw the city a handful of times a year, but the image stuck in his mind. His response to it was pavlovian. Those twinkling lights made him salivate for an indulgence that no other city provided in quite the same way.

“So... What did it look like?”

Her voice dragged him back to the present. She stared at him, as she shook the last few drops from the bourbon bottle into her empty glass. Desmond shot her a resentful look. 

“Lights criss-crossing the streets,” he said. “Winding up the sides of old buildings. Glittering. Every color in the fucking rainbow. Happy now?”

He scraped a hand across his face, then screwed his eyes shut. There was something else he wanted, something that went hand in hand with that shimmering cityscape. He wanted the _good_ memories, the snippets of self-indulgent nights. They didn't come. All he saw in his head was a city gone dark. 

Desmond frowned. He wasn’t sure what prompted it, but the only Amsterdam he remembered now was a city half-bombed. Those lights never went up again, after the Commonwealth dissolved. Civil war brought pitch blackness, every night, everywhere. Ad infinitum, until the nukes dropped. Not so much as a lit cigarette, without the shutters closed. People knew better.

He sat up and planted his elbows on his knees. His time in Amsterdam came back into focus, but it wasn’t the montage of debauchery he’d been reaching for. He only recalled one night, one he hadn’t thought about in decades. It was a night unlike all the others. He was there on business, a covert visit to the embassy - an upscale estate in the middle of a dark city. He had no good reason to wander through the red light district. No reason aside from _her._

“Desmond?”

He stiffened, suddenly aware he’d been scowling at the carpet. His guest examined him, a disbelieving smirk plastered on her face.

“Jesus,” she laughed. “Don't tell me you're a sulky drunk.”

Desmond glared at her. This was the first time in a long time that he was forced to save face, and the feeling wasn't pleasant. 

“You're grilling me about the past,” he snapped. “What did you expect from me, misty-eyed nostalgia?”

“Shit, that's probably the closest you've come to admitting you have feelings.”

“Let's not jump to conclusions.”

He put on his glasses and got up, perhaps more hastily than he should have. She frowned up at him, then stretched out on the chaise, filling the space he left behind. 

“Where are you going in such a fucking hurry?” she asked. 

Desmond threw his suit jacket on a nearby chair and loosened his tie. The more he drank, the more he felt the damn thing choking him. And the more his guest drank, the more she stared. She usually knew better. But she seemed to have caught on to the fact that he wasn't in his right mind. 

He turned his back to her, before she could sniff out some weakness to exploit. Before she could dig up anything else he'd made a point to forget.

“I’m getting another bottle,” he said. “I'll be back.”

 

\-------------

 

A second bottle, almost gone. This time, it was a vintage port. 

Desmond drank with renewed fervor. Unwelcome pre-war memories so rarely made an appearance nowadays, and when they did, he saw fit to bury them quickly. His strategy seemed to be working. But port was sticky sweet, and a slog to get through. He couldn’t finish it on his own, and his drinking partner wasn’t holding up her end of the bargain. 

The last few glasses had hit her like a truck. She slumped against the cushions, a pink flush on her cheeks, half-empty tumbler in hand. She'd splayed out like this bit by bit as the night dragged on, driving him against the low back of the chaise. Desmond since resolved to not give her another inch. She grumbled, this time, when her knee knocked against his. And when he didn’t make way for her sprawling, she kicked her legs over his lap.

“You’re pushing it,” Desmond growled. “I’ve told you more than once to keep your fucking boots off the furniture.”

He reached down and gripped her thigh, hard. He meant it as a warning, but she didn’t pull back like he expected. She crossed her ankles and settled in deeper, a defiant grin twisting across her face. 

“Oh, what the fuck ever,” she muttered. “It's almost Christmas. Lighten up.”

He dug his fingers into her, hard enough to bruise. On any other night, she’d have paid dearly for this. A little shove would easily acquaint her tailbone with the floor. A few more quick movements, and he’d pin her there, or worse. It wouldn’t be the first time he resorted to violence. She resented the lines he drew in the sand, especially ones regarding manners. She necessitated frequent, forceful correction.

Tonight, however, it just didn't seem worth the effort. Blood rushed in his ears when he got a bit too serious about sitting up. It took a moment for him to realize that it had been rushing _other_ places, too. It wasn’t the result of any conscious thought on his part. Bodies - even decayed ones - responded to stimuli, and the heat radiating off her legs prompted a throbbing in his groin, one he hadn’t reckoned with in quite some time. 

It was... _Unexpected,_ to say the least. 

He shifted, a vain attempt to relieve some of the pressure of his turgid cock against her thigh. He merely succeeded in grinding himself against her, which felt better than it should have. 

_Much_ better. Fuck.

Desmond drew in a slow breath. He made a point to avoid situations like these. It wasn't thanks to prudishness, or a lack of interest. He’d merely resolved to keep his grudges fresh, and let everything else fade with time. The most he allowed himself was a few minutes spent fucking his fist to climax, if that’s what it took to keep his wits about him. That principle kept him focused. It kept him _alive._

That said, he didn't care too much about principle at the moment. The only thing he gave a damn about was the growing agony where his cock strained against his fly. His hand still sank into her thigh, and the longer he kept it there, the more his instincts took a turn for the vulgar. How satisfying would it be, to pin her down and fuck her? Her dirty boots on the upholstery only pointed to a larger defect, one he’d failed time and time again to rectify. If chokeholds and twisted arms didn’t teach her respect, then something _unconventional_ might. 

She wouldn’t go down easy. She'd kick and cuss, fight dirty. But he was willing to chance it, if only to hear her beg for mercy. 

As it stood... Nothing ventured, nothing gained. 

He inched his fingers into the warm space between her thighs. She didn't object. Now _that_ was interesting. Desmond glanced at her. He half-expected to see her slipping into unconsciousness, but on the contrary, her half-lidded eyes moved from his probing hand to his face, and back again. 

Desire stabbed him low and hard. He clenched his teeth, biting back a rattling exhale as his eyes ran along her body. Sometime during the evening, she'd stripped off the top layer of her combat armor and left it in a heap nearby. The tank top underneath barely covered her breasts. She was lanky, muscular, easily mistaken for a boy. Not exactly his type, if he could claim to have one anymore. 

He still wanted to fuck her senseless. Maybe it was a symptom of sheer loathing, or maybe, he'd finally allowed himself the luxury of finding her appealing. In any case, his rationale for holding back grew more flimsy by the second. Desmond slid his hand up her leg - not all the way up, but damn near. Close enough to chase away any suspicion that it was an accident. She let out a little exhale and shifted, propping her head upon her clasped hands. 

“Hey,” she murmured. Her leg nudged ever so slightly against his erection. “I’ve... Got another question for you.”

She scooted down and planted her ass his lap. A jolt ran from Desmond’s cock all the way to his stomach, and he steeled himself with a slow breath. That coy lilt in her voice, that deliberate pressure against his groin... _That_ changed things. It meant she knew what was coming. It meant she wasn't worried one fucking bit. 

“Just because I’m _drunk,”_ he growled. “Doesn’t mean I’m in a sharing mood.”

His tone said it all - she was in for a world of hurt. She’d almost certainly picked up on it, and judging by the slight quiver of her breath, she got a thrill from courting disaster.

“Don’t be a spoil-sport,” she teased. 

“Fine,” Desmond said. _“Ask.”_

He continued his advance, a few fingers dragging along the crook of her groin. Her eyes went wide, a soft gasp stealing away whatever question hung on the tip of her tongue.

“I’m waiting,” he said, after a moment. 

“I... Ah.” she stammered. “W-What was Christmas eve like? I mean... _Before_ everything went to shit.”

Desmond fought the urge to smack her with his free hand. 

“Not a fucking chance,” he snarled. “I’d like to down another bottle before I throw up, thank you.”

“Oh, come _on.”_ She rolled her hips against him, disguising her gambit as an attempt to get comfortable. “I figured you’d lighten up after a couple drinks, but apparently not.”

Desmond cinched his hand tighter around her leg. Another silent warning. She stopped squirming, and he pushed down, pinning her in place. 

“If you’re going to pry,” he said. “At least pry about something interesting.”

She smirked, then settled deeper into his lap. Perhaps she thought she was being subtle. Perhaps she thought him too drunk to give her what she deserved. Either way, she was dead wrong. Desmond grit his teeth. Evidently, fucking her outright wouldn't extract the kind of contrition he hoped for. Not when she had all the makings of an incorrigible pervert. 

That she’d happily grind on his cock - on _any_ ghoul’s cock - spoke volumes. He couldn’t be the first. He supposed it got her hot and bothered, dangling herself like a piece of meat in front of wasteland undesirables. He could picture her now, the filthy slut, teasing walking corpses until they fucked her the way she craved. Letting the poor bastards pound her hard, acting the puppet-master, telling them exactly where to put their sex-starved hands to make her cum.

She'd clearly mistaken him for one of those ghouls, mistaken his sudden, obvious interest in her for desperation. Desmond’s blood boiled. That _would_ explain the look on her face - smug, self-satisfied, bordering on gleeful. It was unbelievable, really. Even with his cock prodding her ass and his palm wedged between her thighs, she still acted like she had the tactical advantage. 

Christ, she was _begging_ for punishment.

“A... Alright,” she said at last. “I thought of something.”

She looked at him, tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. Desmond slid his hand up another inch. 

“D-Did you... Ever have a girl?” she asked. “An old flame, or something? Back when you still had skin, obviously.”

She may as well have slapped him in the face. Desmond narrowed his eyes at her. No matter that she still nudged in persistent circles against his cock, or that he had his hand wedged somewhere so sensitive and warm and... _Easily_ exploited. The temptation to remember still overpowered him. 

He knew it wasn't smart. He'd made a point to avoid thinking about this exact thing for half a century or more. It figured that all it took to dismantle his ironclad will was a few drinks, a painful erection and a cock-tease too nosy for her own good.

 _Amsterdam._ He couldn't stop going back to it. He visited that city - and that godforsaken brothel - more times than he could count. Same place, same woman. It wasn’t a pattern he could escape, not after so many years. She had soft skin, fair hair. A tight cunt. And yet, none of that explained his infatuation with her. Maybe it was the things she let him do to her - despicable things, things other high-priced whores wouldn’t tolerate. Or maybe it was what came after. Lying in a spent heap with another body, even someone he'd paid, was a perilously close approximation to real intimacy. 

He'd long since come to terms with it, shoved down the nagging voice that told him habits like that formed attachment. It was painfully cliche, feeling anything more than indifference towards a whore. And he wouldn't call it love. But it was _something._

_“Well?_ Are you going to glare at me or are you going to answer my question?”

Desmond let out a sharp exhale.

“Yes,” he said. “I've had plenty of women, if that's what you're asking.”

She chewed her lip, then stretched out against him, mulling over his reply. Desmond ran his eyes along her body. It was exactly the kind of attention she'd been fishing for, but he didn't give a damn. Her frayed tank top rode up, exposing her stomach - and for once, he realized she wasn't all sinewy muscle. There were soft parts of her, _inviting_ parts. Her tank top grazed over the slight swell of her chest. Her belt cut into her hips. And that enticing spot below her navel, that soft paunch, drew his eyes down to where his hand rested, a few excruciating centimeters from something he couldn’t resist much longer. 

She was so unforgivably fuckable. How he’d managed to overlook that, until this very moment, was beyond him.

“You really... _get off_ on lording that over me, don't you?” she said at last.

Desmond kept quiet, transfixed by the shaky rise and fall of her stomach. She breathed heavier the longer he stared at her. He relished every second of this pregnant silence, and when he finally spoke, he spoke slow, the low rumble in his chest betraying how dangerously aroused he'd become. 

“What, exactly, are you trying to get at?” he asked.

A little trail of goosebumps sprouted on her arms. 

“Experience,” she said. “You have it. I don't.” 

It was all Desmond could do to keep from ripping her pants off then and there. It would be gratifying, without a doubt, to hold her down and impale her on his cock, listening to her mewl and whimper as he unloaded two centuries worth of sexual frustration. But he’d regret it in the long run. All this crushing agony was hers by design, and giving into it would be tantamount to surrender.

She parted her legs a little. He took the opportunity. One last slide, and his hand pushed up against her crotch. He reached out and slid his other hand around the curve of her hip - gripping her hard, anchoring her in place. He thought of it as insurance, in case she tried to wiggle away. But she wasn’t moving, wasn't saying a fucking word. Desmond worked a finger against her. He could feel it though her pants - she was drenched already. She twitched, then bit her lip, watching him through hooded eyes.

“You're... You’re a fucking p-perv, you know that?”

Desmond growled, punctuating it with a spiteful push between her legs. Unabashed hypocrisy wasn’t something he’d let slide, not tonight, not ever.

“And what does that make you?” he snarled. “A bashful goddamn virgin?”

She smiled, hips nudging against his hand.

“I _could_ be.”

Desmond leaned in, spoke quietly.

“I seriously fucking doubt that.”

“H-How... How can you be so sure?”

He slid a finger up her cleft, and she arched her back in response, pressing deeper into his touch. The sight of her, red faced and squirming, was enough to make his mouth water. She didn’t stand a fucking chance.

“Virgins don't usually beg for ghoul cock,” he said.

“I'm not _begging.”_

“You're _absolutely_ are.”

His voice came out more inhuman than usual, shredded vocal cords strangled by arousal. She shot him an impish smile.

“You came on to _me,”_ she said. Her tongue prodded the inside of her cheek. “And I let you. So... _Merry Christmas._ And, by the way... You sure your cock won't fall off the second you try to use it?” 

That had all the makings of a rehearsed jab. Desmond stared her down, watching her smirk widen the longer he kept quiet. She seemed expectant, seemed to anticipate some pathetic excuse for a comeback. She wasn’t getting one. He'd had enough of gritting his teeth through back-sass, and no amount of verbal sparring would make up for time wasted.

No, he had better things in store for her. He dug his hand in deeper, and her shit-eating grin vanished as he ground into that soft spot, front and center. She said something under her breath, a bit of rambling punctuated by an urgent whimper. Then, she melted in his lap - head thrown back, hips jerking in his hand. 

What was the expression, again? 

Like riding a bike. 

He pushed harder, working punishing circles against the damp fabric of her pants. And at his mercy, caught between his fingers and her pubic bone, was a firm bit of flesh getting more swollen by the minute. She let out a pathetic whine, then stretched out, spasms jerking her abdomen. 

“Fuck,” she breathed. Her hand wrapped around his wrist. She pulled him against her, begging for more, demanding it. “That's it, just.... just-”

There it was. The entitlement he’d been waiting for. Just as he suspected, she'd perfected the art of being serviced - taking fumbling, inexperienced hands and nudging them till they hit the right spot. She hadn't quite realized, yet, that he didn’t need guidance. She really believed she still had control.

He stopped. Abruptly, no decrescendo. He kept his hand against her, barely making contact, delighting in the urgent twitch and shiver of her hips against him. Then, he slipped his hand free, snatched her by the wrist, and wrenched her upright. 

_“Wh-What the hell?_ What are you doing?” 

He pulled her against him. His voice fell to a throaty, menacing murmur.

“I suppose you’re used to being catered to the instant you wiggle your ass,” he said. 

“What's _that_ supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re overdue for an attitude adjustment.”

That snapped her out of it. Her free hand flew out and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt.

“Fat chance,” she hissed. “Cut that shit out and pour me another drink.”

She shoved him, yanking back against his grasp. Desmond saw an opening. A few quick movements, and he pinned her arms above her head. She splayed out on her back, his full weight crushing her down against the chaise. 

“You powered through two of my best vintages,” he said. “You're cut off.”

She thrashed, bucking against him with a feral gnash of her teeth. A half-hearted effort, at best. The way he straddled her, she had every opportunity to plant a knee somewhere inconvenient. The thought had surely crossed her mind by now. 

“You're... You’re still such an asshole,” she spat. “After everything I've done for you.”

“Is that right? Because I should be charging you rent, the way you're drinking me out of house and home.”

He held her wrists with one hand, and gripped her jaw with the other. She went slack in response. He brought his mouth against her ear, and her eyes unfocused, lids fluttering. No mistaking it - all this fuss was just for show. If she really wanted to stop him, she'd have spit in his fucking face by now. 

“You know,” he said quietly. His ragged breath puffed against her, and she shivered. “I've put up with your lip all night. I’ve been very nice. I think it’s time you made it up to me.”

She curled her lip.

“That's a cute way of asking me to fuck.” 

“I'm not _asking.”_

Desmond tightened his hold on her jaw. She exhaled, letting out a soft, strangled whimper. He dragged his thumb across her bottom lip, pulled it down. As he pressed his face to her hair, he allowed himself one passing indulgence - a deep drag of her scent, the lingering smell of cigarettes and gunpowder. Then, as suddenly as he’d pinned her, he let her go. She wriggled out from beneath him and sat up, trembling, her chest heaving up and down. 

Desmond tensed, ready to fend her off at a moment’s notice. He half-expected her to aim a kick at his face, at the very least, to keep up appearances. But she didn’t. She just sat there, staring. Her eyes traveled downward, then settled on the bulge in his pants. She may as well have been drooling.

That settled it. She had enough chances to back out of this.

“Take off your pants,” he growled. “Now.”

He _never_ expected her to follow suit. Not now, not ever. He couldn't remember a single instance where she didn't fight to have the last word. But this time, she didn’t even muster up a dirty look. She just _listened,_ fumbling shakily at her belt buckle in breathy silence.

It was a bloody fucking Christmas miracle.

She slipped her pants down around her ankles and began unlacing her boots, when he grabbed her wrist again. He yanked her across his lap, face first, and snagged a savage fistful of her short hair. 

“Hey, what the fuck are you-”

She stopped short, letting out a startled squeak as he wrenched her head back. 

“Listen closely,” he said. “I'm calling the shots tonight, _not_ you. And starting now, you cock-hungry little slut, you're going to watch your mouth when you talk to me.”

“You w-wish,” she choked. “And don’t... Don't _fucking_ call me that.”

He laid out the bait, and she took it. Desmond grinned devilishly, certain that she couldn’t see. 

“As long as I've got you like this,” he said. “I'll call you whatever I damn well please.”

He slapped her across her ass, hard. She bit back her voice, but the sharp, wet exhales she forced through bared teeth told him all he needed to know. She craned her neck, fighting against his hand, straining to look back at him with wild eyes. 

_“Face forward,”_ Desmond growled.

He twisted her head back, and she bucked against him.

“Asshole, f-fucking cocksucker-”

Another strike, another satisfying crack of his palm against her skin. Then, sweet silence. She drew in a breath through her nose, rendered speechless as she grit her teeth through the pain. This was shaping up to be a better remedy for her impudence than he ever expected. 

“You know why it’s come to this, don’t you?” he said. 

“You're a sick fuck with a spanking fetish?” 

She thrashed against him again, and he pinned her legs with one arm, holding her down as he leaned towards her ear.

“If only it were that fucking simple,” he breathed. “But it's not, so I’ll lay it out for you. And you'll _listen_ while I talk.” 

He adjusted his grip on her, jerking her head back in the process. She squirmed a bit, but his merciless hold sucked the fight right out of her. 

“You're an entitled little hussy,” he continued, through clenched teeth. “You think the rest of the world owes you something. Not to mention... You’ve got a dirty mouth, and you're a _very bad_ listener.”

He palmed the red, angry handprint on her ass cheek. She growled in response.

“Now, I'm giving you an opportunity to change your ways. You apologize, you beg, and I'll spare the proverbial rod. You carry on like this, and _sorry_ won't even begin to cover it.”

She quivered, and it took Desmond a moment recognize it as laughter. His pulse spiked. Whether out of anger or excitement, he didn’t know. In moments like these, it never seemed to matter which was which.

“Is something funny?” 

“Yeah,” she sneered “You hit like a little bitch.”

“That's going to change, very fucking quickly, if you don't shape up.”

He shoved her head down and ripped at her belt, where it bunched up around her legs. She'd already done half the work for him, and it only took a few strong tugs to get it loose. Desmond pressed on her neck, kept her forehead mashed into the chaise. He expected her to resume thrashing once she realized his intent. But even as he ripped the belt free, she stayed put, growling, jaw bulging as she clenched her teeth.

“Try me, asshole,” she spat. “Just... _A-Ah.”_

He folded the belt in half and laid it across her ass. She trailed off, but he caught something pathetic in her voice, something delightfully close to remorse. Desmond wrenched her neck back. 

“Just _what?”_ he said. “Speak up.”

“I... I don't know. _Shit._ Just... Don't take it too far. _Okay?”_

She trembled in his grip, but didn’t struggle. _This_ was new. She'd never asked for mercy preemptively. Only when he had her pinned, her airway crushed, maybe a limb threatening to slip out of its socket, did she cry uncle. But she treated their frequent scuffles as training, in a way, even when he meant them as punishment. 

This was... Different, to put it mildly. Desmond sat with it for a moment. It certainly didn’t matter what she wanted. He could continue, disregard her plea, torment her the way he planned and be done with it. But she'd likely meet that savagery head on. She always did. 

No, a subtler approach could work wonders. Let _her_ think this was her choice. Let her think she had control. 

“That leaves quite a bit up to my discretion,” he said at last.

She drew in a wet, shuddering breath.

“No... No hitting the face,” she said hoarsely. 

“And what else?”

“You'll _know_ if there's something else.”

“And how, exactly, are you going to make that clear?”

Desmond waited, jaw clenching, his patience wearing thinner by the second. He'd never taken to these conversations. Paying whores back in the day had its merits - a clear transaction, a clear intent. It was expedient, and it didn’t require him to pander.

Enough dallying. Desmond adjusted his hold on the belt, prompting her to shiver against him. 

“I'll settle for begging,” he said. “A nice _please_ goes a long way.”

“I'll punch you in the fucking mouth,” she spat. “That clear enough?”

She laughed again - a nervous titter this time, fueled by adrenaline. The sound made him livid. She still didn’t grasp the danger he posed, but she would, soon enough. 

Desmond cinched his fist tight around her hair - her first and only warning. Then, he whipped the belt across her ass. A delightful crack of leather against skin. She tensed, then let out a guttural sob, squirming in his lap.

“God, that _hurts.”_

She whimpered, then pulled away. He held her in place, one hand in her hair, the other pinning her knees, delighting in the friction of her writhing against him.

“I already warned you once,” he said. “Feeling polite yet?”

“F-Fuck you!”

“Not an acceptable answer, I'm afraid.”

She went rigid again. Desmond held back his next strike, kept her in suspense. Ten seconds, twenty. Her tension melted away, bit by bit, until she hung limp from his hold at her nape. Panting, shuddering. _Permitting._

He marveled at the sight of her. Her undoing happened more quickly than he thought. _This_ was submission. This was someone waiting to be punished. 

One more strike, then two in rapid succession. He watched her blood rush to the skin, ran his eyes along criss-crossing lines where welts were sure to form.

“Desmond, that's-”

Another, harder this time. She let out a pained shriek. 

“It's too-”

 _Another._ She tried to scramble away, and he twisted his grip in her hair. 

“Fuck, Desmond, please, _please-”_

The belt stopped short. Desmond let go of her hair, and she fell forward onto her elbows, quivering, every short breath punctuated by a sputtering whimper. He pressed a firm hand on the back of her skull.

“I didn't quite hear you,” he said.

“You've _got_ to be kidding me.” She choked a little on her own spit, then arched her back, fighting to turn and look at him. “I’m not going to say it fifty fucking times, you goddamn- _Fuck!”_

Desmond pushed her down until her cheek mashed against the chaise. A reminder, more than anything, that his mercy wasn't guaranteed. 

_“You'll say it as many times as I tell you to.”_

He increased his pressure, driving down sharply on her neck. She choked in response, spine twisting at an unnatural angle. 

“A-Alright-- Okay. _Okay,”_ she hissed. She bared her teeth, spit bubbling as she sucked in a breath. “Please. _Please!_ Fuck, I said _please,_ you fucking asshole-”

“You can do better than that.”

“What the hell else do you want me to- _A-ah.”_

His fingers worked around her hair once more, and she snapped her mouth shut. God, she was pathetic. A string of drool hung from her chin, and she drew in a wet, shuddering breath, excess saliva pooling around her clenched teeth. 

He ran his other hand along the swell of her ass, then between her legs, prompting a soft whimper. Like he hoped, she was slick, moreso than she’d been mere moments before. Desmond grinned. No matter how much she sniveled and complained, her body was deliciously honest. Not to mention, feeling her messy, masochistic cunt clench around his fingers brought back a kind of nirvana he thought dead and gone. He’d given up on lusting after narrow sexual inclinations - it wasn't worth the disappointment. Even before nuclear holocaust, this kind of gratification wasn't easy to find. 

This was almost better than he remembered. _Almost,_ though he never expected anything to measure up to what he’d had. He ran his eyes along the body in his lap - her wiry frame, her perky ass decorated with angry belt marks. She didn’t look anything like the woman he lusted after all those centuries ago. And there was nary a shred of what made a high-class whore desirable - no trace of poise, of culture, of sophistication.

Yet... He couldn't help but draw a comparison. It wasn't until _tonight_ that he found another woman so shamelessly twisted.

He wasn't naive, back then. He knew most whores played up their enjoyment, grit their teeth through whatever he could dole out for the sake of good money. It was pure chance that he found the one who _didn't._ He caught the subtle cues in her body language - a sheen of sweat, flush on the skin, dilated pupils. The things a woman couldn't bite back if she tried. 

_“Fuck,_ thats... Oh, g-god.”

That needy moan snapped him to attention, stabbing him low and hard. His fingers probed between her legs. They worked in a mindless rhythm, but it was more than enough to get her quivering. Her hips tilted, begging silently for him to push deeper. He obliged. He spread his fingers out, stretching her. All too graciously, he sought out the spots that made her clench. The flush on her cheeks deepened, and she arched her back, offering herself for the taking. This was too easy, too enjoyable.... And _far_ too close to what she wanted from him. 

His memory saw fit to warn him - he’d fallen into this trap before. From that jumbled mess of pre-war trysts, he only remembered one night with any clarity. Naturally, it was the one night in he preferred to forget. There was no hitting that time, no slide of ropes against skin. Maybe he was feeling uninspired... Or maybe, for once, he was just looking for comfort. 

The mere notion sobered him up. Desmond grimaced. He reminded himself that the woman in his lap needed _correction_ , and anything short of that was simply coddling. She hadn't learned her lesson yet, not by a long shot. He shoved her off of him. She fell in a heap onto the floor, legs bound by the tangle of her pants. 

“Fuck, a little warning would be nice-”

She startled, scrambling back as he rose to his feet. Desmond grabbed her by the hair before she could put any more distance between them. With a spiteful yank, he brought her eyes level with his fly.

_“Oh.”_

An exhale escaped her parted lips. He stared down at her, waiting. 

“Well?” he said. “You're a big girl, I shouldn't have to spell it out for you.”

A pair of shaky hands found their way to his belt. She struggled with it, her ineptitude making it all the more satisfying when his cock finally sprang free. Desmond basked in her reaction - her breathy moan, the slight widening of her eyes. He took pride in his intact cock. It had a few rough patches, quite a bit of missing skin, but no damage worth fretting over. Nothing to stop him from ravaging her the way he wanted. He grabbed her hair, dragged his erection across her cheek, and angled it against her lips. 

“Go on,” he said. He twisted her head back, balancing himself on her chin. “Prove to me that you learned your lesson. Convince me.”

She licked at the trail of precum he’d left behind. Then, she parted her lips, offering him her defenseless, gaping mouth. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t seem to sense his ill intentions. She still trembled from the beating he’d given her minutes before, but perhaps that naive, lobotomized brain of hers thought the worst of it was over. She was sorely mistaken.

He pushed his hips forward, and she looked up at him. A few swirls of her tongue coaxed him into her mouth, and before long, she sucked him all on her own, exaggerated little gasps and moans timed with the bobbing of her head. Desmond looked on, gripping her hair tighter to mask the trembling that wracked his body. Her hot, wet mouth put the past two centuries of uninspired masturbation to shame. It felt good. It felt _incredible._ But that wasn’t the point. 

He bit his tongue, hard, straining to keep his composure. Her lavish attention didn't ingratiate her to him one fucking bit, and he couldn’t have her thinking otherwise. He let this hypnotic cock-worship drag on for a minute longer, pinning her with an unflinching, impersonal stare. Then, in one violent motion, he shoved to the back of her mouth. She convulsed, retched, tried in vain to push him out. Not good enough. He wanted down her throat. He drove against that little bit of resistance, and she went slack, hanging from his grasp as her lips met the base of his shaft. 

He pushed at her head, vision blurring, lost in the sporadic twitching of her muscles around him. The moment passed too quickly. Her jaw clenched, teeth digging in hard, a clear warning. Not worth risking it. With as much force as he'd thrust into her, Desmond pulled out. She crumpled. Thick strings of drool stretched between her mouth and his pulsing cock. Eyes watering, she spit out a shuddering sob, and after a few wet coughs, she glared up at him.

“Something wrong?” he asked. 

“That _hurt,_ you son of a bitch.”

“Good. That's the idea.”

Desmond took hold of her chin and smeared the mess of drool with his thumb. She jerked back, staggering halfway to her feet. 

“I'm not done with you," he said. _"Down.”_

 _“Fuck_ you,” she hissed. “I don’t have to do a goddamn- _Ow!”_

He twisted a fistful of her hair and forced her back to her knees. With one hand on her head and the other seizing her shoulder, he pushed his cock against her clenched teeth. 

_“Open,”_ he ordered. 

A flash of defiance crossed her face, but he saw through her posturing, saw something else lurking beneath it. She stared up at him, lip curled. But after a moment, her gaze softened, trailing down to rest on his cock. Bit by bit, her jaw unclenched. When he pushed against her a second time, she didn’t fight it. He slipped past her teeth, then shoved inside her mouth with a growl. 

She choked on him immediately. Indifferent, Desmond worked up a punishing rhythm as she squirmed, ragged breaths sputtering out with every thrust. 

“Sit still.”

Her sudden obedience was telling. He pulled out again, cock resting across her face, allowing her a second to breathe. Allowing _himself_ a moment to regain his composure. Still, the sight of her was nearly too much to bear. Snot ran from her nose, and she shivered as he held her in place. Desmond stared down at her, his shuddering breaths betraying his arousal. Through it all, she kept her mouth open. Waiting. _Willing._

_“Good girl.”_

Her eyes unfocused, and she moaned, running a greedy tongue along his shaft. Desmond let out a pleasured growl. Fuck, he certainly didn’t expect that reaction. He hadn’t even planned on _offering_ praise. It just slipped out, a careless bit of validation as he smeared his cock across her tear-stained face. 

God, it was so fucking obvious. She loved this, every filthy second of it.

She looked up, then through him, her woozy expression drifting somewhere between elation and catatonia. Her shaky hand crept between her legs. Desmond watched, aching for more. He forced himself to wait. Timing was everything, and the longer he stared, the harder she worked at herself - until finally, she gave him the opening he needed. She flicked a finger across her clit and spasmed. Her mouth opened, head tilting back, quiet moan escaping her lips. He pulled back and slammed his cock down her throat, cutting it short. Her free hand flew up and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Still, she didn’t fight him. She closed her watering eyes, leaned into his hold on her nape. Her hand still explored her cunt, with exactly the kind of urgency he expected. She was shameless, deranged. _Delighted._ Desmond groaned, despite himself, hips bucking into her - a few more staccato thrusts, enough to send little bursts of pleasure skittering up his spine. 

_Fuck._ Even the graze of her teeth against him was enough to push him to the breaking point. At this rate, he’d blow his load on her face, and she’d get herself off without learning a damn thing. 

No time to waste. Desmond pulled out of her mouth and dragged her up by her hair, sent her stumbling back to the chaise. He dragged her onto his lap, grabbing the crook of her knees, yanking her until she straddled him. Then, he thrust up into her. No warning, no preparation. 

_“Wait,”_ she gasped. She shot upright and sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth. “W-Wait, just- _Wait.”_

She lifted her ass, fleeing him. His hands pushed vindictively down on her hips, and he growled into her neck, teeth grazing her jugular.

“Now why the _fuck_ should I do that?” he asked.

He punctuated his query with a stab against her slit. She whimpered, her face twisted, bracing in silence.

 _“I asked you a question,”_ he snarled. She squirmed, and he shoved into her again, prompting another pathetic whine. “Give me _one_ good reason why I shouldn’t fuck you raw.”

“It’s... It's just _been_ a while,” she said.

Desmond sank his fingers into her hips. A deranged feeling surged in his chest, something between amusement and blistering rage. She didn't have the faintest fucking idea. Or maybe she did, and this was some elaborate ploy to get under his skin. He’d gone two centuries without a good rut. He couldn't handle waiting another second. 

She was slick, scalding against the head of his cock. He pushed her down just enough to bully her into sinking onto his shaft. He didn't meet much resistance at first, but she was tight. _Fuck,_ she was tight. The sensation sent stars skittering across his vision. He growled, forced her down harder, before she had the chance to fight him. 

_“Jesus, Desmond-”_

Her hand flew out, latched on to his forearm where it braced against her thigh. Her nails dug into his wrist. He didn't ease off. He kept pushing, kept working her down inch by excruciating inch. She could beg if she wanted to, not that it would make much of a difference. He’d already decided how he wanted this to go. 

She didn’t ask him to stop. She didn’t make much sound at all, really, merely wincing in silence as he bottomed out inside her. It was all a bit anti-climactic, but Desmond’s disappointment didn’t last. Her muscles clamped down, squeezed him mercilessly, sent hot waves of pleasure rippling from his cock to his abdomen and back again.

Fuck, it _had_ been a while. Longer than she could comprehend. 

He drew himself out, and plunged back in. Once, twice, three times, doubling down on his savagery with each strike. She let out a little sob, and he watched the twisted expression on her face, willing her to plead with him, to ask for mercy. Still, there was no crying, no struggling. Not like he’d hoped. She’d already stopped clenching her teeth. The crimson flush on her face crept down to her breasts, and after a moment, she closed her eyes, unleashing a breathy moan. The sight made him livid, made him pound into her with renewed vengeance. 

“You fucking slut,” he breathed. “You _like_ it rough, don't you?”

“L-Like you give a shit.”

“I don't. But I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes, then. It's... Ah. F-Fuck.”

“It's what?”

“G-Good, its... _Good.”_

He drove her down onto his erection, and she squealed, teeth digging into her bottom lip.

“Be more specific,” he growled.

Desmond forced the words through his teeth, a painstaking effort to mask the needy tremble in his voice. He wanted so desperately for her to lay it out for him. He wanted nothing more than to hear her confess, own up to being the filthy degenerate she so obviously was. 

“What the fuck else am I supposed to- _A-ah!”_

She bucked her hips against him, then quivered, throat jumping silently when her pushback resulted in a particularly deep stroke. Desmond didn’t get any gentler. Her reactions delighted him too much. He never liked going at it in silence, but he’d forgotten this feeling - this paradoxical swell of satisfaction when he fucked a girl speechless. 

“You're an absolute fucking disgrace,” he spat. His tone grew more venomous by the second. “Now, how did _that_ happen? What makes a sheltered, snot-nosed little brat like you so _fucking_ disgusting?”

He punctuated that last bit of profanity by pulling her down, impaling her. Her tortured moan told him he’d gotten to the root of her perversion. He slowed his thrusts, then stopped altogether, grinning at the devastated way she sank down onto his cock. If he couldn’t make her cry by pounding her raw, then he’d find other ways to put her in her place. 

“W-Why...” she lamented. “Why did you-”

“Your turn,” he said. “Work for it, and _maybe_ I'll fuck you the way you want.”

He leaned back, arms behind his head, and watched her over the rim of his glasses. Waiting. _Expecting._ Judging by her flustered frown, she wasn’t used to this kind of denial. She leaned forward, hands clawing the chaise on either side of him. In that moment, he could have mistaken her for someone innocent, or at least inexperienced. She struggled to find a rhythm. Her strokes were a bit too shallow. He pushed into her, gave her a little encouragement, delighting in her fleeting uncertainty. Sure enough, the disappointment pinching on her face didn’t last. It wasn’t long before she churned steadily up and down on his lap, letting out little shuddering whimpers that grew louder by the second.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “I want you to stretch out that tight little cunt on my cock.”

Just like before, that negligible scrap of encouragement set her off. She flushed a deeper shade of red, then tightened up around him, grinding down. He dug his fingers into her hips in response, extracting a delighted squeal. 

"Good." He spit out praise just the same as an insult, reveling in the way she curled at the sound of his voice. " _Very_ good. _Keep going."_

She clamped around him, then picked up the pace - breathing ragged, sweat beading on her breasts despite the cold air. Face scrunched up, bottom lip pinned by her teeth, she drove herself longer than he expected, _harder_ than he expected. She took him to the hilt, over and over, bruising that tender spot inside. Practically _begging_ for him to hold her down, fill her up, mark her from the inside out. 

No. Not happening. Not yet. 

He clenched his tongue between his teeth. That pain did the trick, staving off his imminent climax just long enough for her to succumb to exhaustion. She slowed, shaky at first, struggling to keep up a rhythm. Then, she fell against him. Her hands dug into his shoulders now, instead of the upholstery, and she pressed down, her hot breath puffing against his face. 

In an instant, she was close. _Too_ close. Desmond shuddered. He dragged his teeth across her neck, licked the sweat from her skin. _Anything_ to distract himself. 

What a miserable failiure that was. Her reaction intoxicated him. She mewled at his little violation and rocked her hips against him, slowly this time. With that, the temptation only worsened - he watched her swollen lips, shiny with a layer of saliva. She kept licking them, biting down when the pleasure overwhelmed her. He sucked her neck, bruised it mercilessly as he fought the urge to crush his mouth against hers. He wanted to shove his tongue inside. He wanted to defile her, delight in every lewd little moan that escaped from her throat.

Too bad. What he wanted didn’t matter. He wouldn’t - _couldn’t_ \- cross that line. He knew how quickly it changed an impersonal fuck into something different. 

Somehow, he didn’t see it coming. Perhaps he could have pushed her away, had he not been so swept up in holding back his need for release. He let his guard down. He knew _better_. And yet, she craned her neck, caught his mouth with hers, trapped him. It was a violent kiss. Her chin slammed against his, her teeth bit down. She pushed her tongue against him, demanded entry - and against every instinct, he let her in. 

She rewarded him with a delirious, wavering moan. Her grasping hands ran up his chest and found their way to his face. She held him there, fingers exploring, running across fibers of exposed muscle. Her hips bucked. Then, she picked up the same desperate pace - her tongue shoved deeper, cunt clenched tighter. She broke away to come up for air, breath puffing in feverish bursts, only to latch onto him again. Desmond was powerless to resist. He felt a need rising, white-hot, crawling up his spine. The feeling surged in his stomach. Something too good, too _soon_ , too irresistible... 

He put a stop to it. Both hands flew up to her throat. He shoved her back, ripped her mouth from his and held her there, dangling from his grasp. She clawed at his hands. When that failed to get her free, she clutched his forearms, fear flashing across her face. 

“Desmond-”

He tightened his grip. Just enough to silence her, but not so tight that she couldn’t choke out a word or two if she really wanted to beg. It took every last shred of self-control not to crush down on her airway. He settled for watching the blood rush to her skin, tiny vessels flooded to the breaking point. That split-second, wide-eyed panic fled her face. It gave way to a faraway stare, and she twitched, unmoving, still impaled on his cock. 

His overstimulation faded. Climax didn’t seem so pathetically near. That aside, he could still taste her on his lips, and a twisting in his gut remained - a vulnerable, uneasy sensation he hadn’t felt in a long time.

His memory kept intruding. That night in Amsterdam, that one blasted night. It wasn’t the first time he'd kissed a whore, but it had been years. The past came back in flashes - fumbling hands, hot breath, the sweet taste of her tongue. Creeping regret. If he hadn't kissed her, she wouldn't have sensed something _off_ about him. She wouldn't have treated him differently. Without a doubt, it would have been better if he'd never kissed her at all.

Lesson learned. He strangled her harder. She let out a ragged wheeze, then coughed, throat jumping under his hands. It still wasn’t enough. Desmond reached for all the unforgivable things he wanted to say. He wanted to strip her down, wound her, humiliate her... But the words wouldn't come. He wasn’t going to risk trying, risk stumbling over his own tongue like a schoolboy. The best he could do was to keep fucking her. He held her in place, and picked up where he left off.

“Har... der. _Desmond-”_

He didn't know if she meant the choking, or the fucking. He settled for both. He slammed into her, and she let out a keening, satisfied squeal. He cut it short, clamping down on her airway. Her mouth hung open, her stomach convulsing, insides fluttering around his cock. Without a doubt, this marked his surrender. She had him wrapped around her finger just like she’d planned. A nagging voice told him he’d never had the upper hand to begin with, that he’d lost the very moment she threw her legs over his lap. He shoved it down. He didn’t fucking care anymore. 

It wasn’t fair - he didn’t expect her to _love_ this so much. 

He could salvage this, if only a little. He channeled his indignation, brutalized her with every thrust. The world around him shrank, until only the sensation of her clenching thighs and his throttling hands remained. Too bad, then, that he only got a few seconds of this sadistic bliss before she squeezed one of his arms, then pulled insistently at it. That was that. Desmond was loath to end it, but getting carried away wasn’t practical, not with her brain already damaged beyond repair. He slipped both hands from her throat, and her face twisted into a mournful expression.

 _“No,”_ she whimpered. 

She gripped one of his wrists, held him at her throat. She took the other and guided his hand to her mouth. He _let_ her do it - exactly what he swore he wouldn’t. He let her use him, move him around like a pawn for her pleasure. Her warm tongue slid between his fingers, and he pushed a few inside, battling her tongue, bidding her to suck on him. He tightened his other hand around her neck. The pinched look of discontent on her face passed, and she closed her eyes, air escaping from her crushed airway in an elated sigh. 

Before he could stop himself, Desmond harmonized with her, undercutting her high note with a guttural moan of his own. A self-satisfied grin curled on her face. She looked down at him, gloating, and ground down on his cock in time with his thrusts. She took control of his pacing, goaded him to meet her downward pressure quicker, faster, more desperate. Drool ran slick down her chin. Greedily, she sucked on his fingers - preventing any coherent thought, any inkling of self control, any shred of dignity...

 _Fuck._ Any more of this, and she’d make him cum. 

He stopped driving into her, his hips retreating into the chaise, but she’d run him up against the edge. She pinned him down, picked up the slack this time. She tormented him with deep, consistent strokes, smug fucking smile widening as he struggled to pull his hands from her vice grip. 

God, when did he let her get a hold on _both_ his wrists? 

He gave a second ineffectual yank, then stopped trying altogether. He wasn’t getting free, not when it had been so long - not when he was so close, and it was all he could do to keep from unleashing everything. He snarled and tightened his chokehold on her throat. It was a last ditch effort to wrest back control, and it was a stupid, _stupid_ move. The flushed, delighted smile on her face told him she wasn’t going to last, and neither was he. 

“God, _yes,”_ she choked. “Going to... Fuck, _Desmond-”_

She threw her head back, back arching, thighs trembling on either side of him. He unraveled. Watching her turn purple, still clutching his wrist, still demanding he throttle her to climax... It was too much. Too _good._

He clenched his teeth, biting back the desperate moan that surged up his throat, twisting it into a series of strangled grunts. He spilled inside of her, spasm after spasm of pent up, spiteful, barbaric lust. He held her down against him, feeling every twitch as she writhed in those last little throes of ecstacy. 

Her orgasm waned before his. She released his wrists, limp, exhausted. He choked her for just a second longer. Just long enough to milk the last of his climax. Long enough to enjoy the illusion that he’d had this control all along. Then, he let her go, arms falling heavy against the chaise. She slumped forward, shuddering hands on his shoulders, her strangled breath hot against his neck. 

“That w-was... _good,”_ she stammered. _“Really_ fucking good.”

Desmond said nothing. He couldn't find the strength. He drifted for a moment, eyes wandering to the nearby window, frosted over and set ablaze by the ferris wheel’s rainbow glow. The sight was all too familiar. He’d seen it a hundred different ways, on a hundred different nights, colored lights filtering through brothel curtains. He closed his eyes, as much an attempt to flee the memory as it was a product of sheer exhaustion. 

The darkness behind his eyelids gave no reprieve. This pathetic post-coital haze, the unwelcome weight and naked warmth of a body on top of him... It sent his mind somewhere else. That last night. That bombed city. He went to that same brothel, fucked her in the dark. There were no lights, that time, and they didn’t say a word to each other until it was long over. They lay like this, body against body, when she finally whispered that she was glad to see him. That it had been too long. She suspected the worst, an all too likely outcome in a world falling apart at the seams.

He didn’t say anything back. He wrote her confession off as just another two-faced platitude, the modus operandi of someone who stroked egos for money just as deftly as she stroked cocks. He didn’t like the way it made him feel - like she’d stuck a knife into his guts. Like he’d made an irrevocable mistake.

The satisfied sigh next to his ear dragged him back to reality. His guest hadn't budged, her hands on his shoulders, head nestled against his neck. Long sober, and absent the buzz of arousal, her dead weight on his chest prompted an intolerable crawling sensation. 

“Get off,” he said. _“Now.”_

He gripped her shoulders, then pried her off of him, shoving her onto the chaise. She grimaced and rolled onto her side. 

“Fuck,” she grumbled. “Alright, then. Merry Christmas to you too, asshole.”

Blinking sleepily, she closed her eyes, then deflated with a long exhale. Her forehead lolled slightly against his shoulder. Desmond scowled, but made no effort to push her away. He was fading fast, already too far gone to split hairs over personal space. 

He stared at the ceiling, at a loss. This night had gone careening off the rails, and he had no good excuse for _letting_ it. Forget history, and be doomed to repeat it. That cliche proved to be true, time and time again. Desmond took pride in his strategic prowess, and yet, he'd fallen prey to a siren with shit for brains, a wasteland stray with a warped libido. He'd compromised most every principle he held dear for the sake of a good, nasty fuck. 

He didn’t regret that, not really. More humiliating was the fact that he shamefully overplayed his hand. And now, he’d opened up another front to defend, another way for her to test him. He’d failed, until now, to grasp the severity of his own disadvantage. 

Desmond closed his eyes, surrendering to a deep, apathetic slumber. He decided, for the time being, that his budding predicament didn’t matter. That he’d deal with it - with _her_ \- in the morning. He decided that it was _Christmas,_ for fuck’s sake, and his gift to himself was one night of self-indulgence, one single night of not giving a damn. 

After two centuries of slogging through armageddon, it was the least he could fucking do.

**Author's Note:**

> Yay, you finished! Thank you for reading! I hope you had as much fun reading this as I did while hammering it out. This was my very first time writing smut, so I appreciate any constructive feedback! And please let me know if I overlooked tagging something that could be a potential flag for another reader, or yourself.
> 
> If you're interested, I'd also love if you checked out my other works - I have a gen/action WIP featuring Desmond, as well as a few Charon fics (one completed gen work, and a series of Charon/FLW fluff/romance oneshots). 
> 
> Thank you again!! <3


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